Kya kisi se kam thha, Ishq beimaan apna?

Transcribed an old Urdu ghazal by my grandfather, Ali Jawad Zaidi, into roman letters for those who are into this sort of thing but don't know the Urdu script. 

Kya kisi se kam thha, ishq beimaa.n apna?
Intizaar kyun karti marg e nagahaa.n apna?

Jab Tahu ke deta hai dard e bekaraa.n apna
Gungunaane lagta hai shauq e naghmakhwa.n apna

Jis jagah havaon se shole baat karte hain
Bas vahin kahin par tha gosha e imaa.n apna

Manzilon mein shabkhoon hain, raaston mein rahzan hain
Hum ko phir bhi chalna hai leke kaarwaa.n apna

Uske saare taaqon par rang o buu ki devi hai
Dair e khush-navaayi hai sang e aastaa.n apna

Dost agle waqton ke daude bahr e hamdardi
Kaash main bhi sun sakta shor "Ala maa.n" apna

Sau payaam ulfat ke kaanpte hain hothon par
Ajnabi si galiyon mein kaun hum-zabaa.n apna

Zindagi ki mahroomi tohfa e mohabaat hai
Humne inse paaya hai dard e raigaa.n apna

Daastaa.n faroshi to shaayri nahin Zaidi
Fan kahin na ban jaaye zeb e daastaa.n apna

- Ali Jawad Zaidi (page 37, Naseem-e-dasht-e-aarzu)

Translated poems by Amitabh

I have translated a few more poems by the Hindi poet Amitabh. Some of them are from his first collection, Samastipur aur anya kavitayein. Three of them ('Living is What They’re Thinking About', 'The Metro-dwellers', and 'Story') have been published online in Antonym. Another two ('Sajda Khatun, A Witch? Oh, No' and 'The Life of a Grave') will appear in the print version of the journal. Link to the website here: 

https://www.theantonymmag.com/three-poems-by-amitabh-bachchan/

New poem: The Station Ghazal

I have a new poem out in the Stone Circle Review. 

Read it here:  https://stonecirclereview.com/the-station/

Some poetry videos

 I have been experimenting a bit with poetry videos in recent months. Here's the channel link: 

https://www.youtube.com/@AnnieZaidi-writer/videos

Here's a five part poem to start with. If you're into poetry and things, listen, watch, and share etc: 

Five conversations I can no longer bear to have in person: 1

Five conversations I can no longer bear to have in person: 2

Five conversations I can no longer bear to have in person: 3

Five conversations I can no longer bear to have in person: 4

Five conversations I can no longer bear to have in person: 5

Missing Weather

 This poem appeared in issue 113 of Acumen literary magazine in 2025. 

Ye khyaal e diwana aaj phir kahaan guzra (ghazal by Ali Jawad Zaidi)

Ye khyaal e diwana aaj phir kahaan guzra
Ik-ik lamhe par hashr ka gumaan guzra

Nok e khaar par chalna kal humin ko tha maloom
Aaj khaarzaaron se poora kaarwaan guzra

Zikr doston ka tha doston ki mehfil thi
Dushmanon ko kya kahiye dost ko garaan guzra

Jab firaq aa pahuncha bhoolne ki manzil tak
Qafila ummeedon ka dil mein nagahaan guzra

Tohfa e judaai tha ashk e surmaye e aalooda
Main jo ro pada aakhir mujhko kya gumaan guzra

Bheek humne maangi thi zeest se tabassum ki
Vo bhi ik ravaan lamha jaane kab kahaan guzra

Khatm hai safar apna, ab kahein to kya Zaidi
Kaise sakht dushman par dost ka gumaan guzra

- Ali Jawad Zaidi (page 48, Naseem-e-dasht-e-aarzu)

Vocabulary:

Gumaan: suspicion, false belief

Khaarzaar: thornfields

Garaan: dear/costly

Nagahaan: unforeseen

Alooda: polluted/soiled

Two 4-line poems by Ali Jawad Zaidi

Dil oob gaya khamosh rahte rahte

Dum ghutne laga ranj sahte sahte

Ik jaam idhar, haath badha kar saaqi

Aghyaar se koi baat kahte kahte 

- Ali Jawad Zaidi 

page 30 (Naseem-e-dasht-e-aarzu)

                    *

Chaak e sar damaan e khiza milta hai

Mausam naye mausam se gale milta hai

Aur aisi fizayein, hai ye aalam apna

Ik chot si lagti hai jo gul khilta hai.

- Ali Jawad Zaidi 

page 45 (Naseem-e-dasht-e-aarzu)

Kedarnath Singh's 'Mukti'

Making an attempt to translate one of my favourite Hindi poets, Kedarnath Singh's 'Mukti'.


When I found no other path to liberation
I have sat down to write

I want to write 'tree'
Though I know that to write is to become tree
I want to write 'water'

'Man' 'Man' - I want to write
A child's hand
A woman's face
With all my strength
I want to hurl words at man
Though I know nothing will come of it
On a bustling street, I want to hear the explosion
Of word colliding with man

Though I know nothing comes of writing
I want to write.

-

Original poem in Hindi


मुक्ति का जब कोई रास्ता नहीं मिला
मैं लिखने बैठ गया हूँ

मैं लिखना चाहता हूँ 'पेड़'
यह जानते हुए कि लिखना पेड़ हो जाना है
मैं लिखना चाहता हूँ 'पानी'

'आदमी' 'आदमी' - मैं लिखना चाहता हूँ
एक बच्चे का हाथ
एक स्त्री का चेहरा
मैं पूरी ताकत के साथ
शब्दों को फेंकना चाहता हूँ आदमी की तरफ
यह जानते हुए कि आदमी का कुछ नहीं होगा
मैं भरी सड़क पर सुनना चाहता हूँ वह धमाका
जो शब्द और आदमी की टक्कर से पैदा होता है

यह जानते हुए कि लिखने से कुछ नहीं होगा
मैं लिखना चाहता हूँ।

- Kedarnath Singh

[Translation: Annie Zaidi]

Against the Death of Dream (in Wasafiri, 40th anniversary issue, Autumn 2024)

I've written my first essay for the lastest issue of Wasafiri, themed Futurisms. Here's a very short extract from my essay, Against the Death of Dream: 

One of the most dangerous things, Pash warned, is the clock that moves on your wrist but not in your eyes. For years I wondered at this image of a stopped clock in the reader’s eye, and the way the poet juxtaposes frozen time against water frozen inside eyes. (Sabse khatarnaak vo aankh hoti hai/jo sab dekhti hui bhi jami barf hoti hai). If to dream is to have a vision for the future, then the death of dream is to accept that the present moment is all of time, and that we must lose all hope for a safer, more loving, more leisurely time. Read in this light, I would argue that the danger is not restricted only to the loss of hopeful dreams; it is just as dangerous to lose our nightmares.

In Radical Hope, philosopher-psychoanalyst Jonathan Lear writes that anxiety can be a realistic response to the world, which suggests that anxiety-induced dreams serve to alert us to individual and collective threats. If we know how to ‘read’ our nightmares, we may find that they serve as timely warnings. In my own experience, I find nightmares to be a useful aid in reconnecting with my instinctive ‘self’. Last year, I had woken up from a miserable dream...

Please read the rest of the essay in the lastest issue of Wasafiri (119, 40th anniversary issue, Autumn 2024).

Annie Zaidi

Ye na samjho matwalo

One of Ali Jawad Zaidi's Urdu ghazals, likely written soon after India won independence:

Ye na samjho matwalo! Kaun ab sataayega?
Haar maan li dukh ne, sukh to aazmaayega

Bekasi ke mele mein jo bhi gaahak aayega
Jholoyaa.n to bhar lega, khud bhi lut ke jayega

Dhoop mein naha legi jab asaadh ki dharti
Zarre-zarre mein saawan phir se kunmunaayega

Har guzarte lamhe par muhar lag chuki lekin
Laakh bhool jayega, phir bhi yaad aayega

Humne kitne afsaane likh ke chaak chaak kar daale
Waqt apna afsaana, hum ko kya sunaayega!

Baar-baar mud-mud kar yoon na dekh, deewane
Kaun raah dekhega, kaun phir bulaayega

Aankh kyun ladaate ho, dopahar ke sooraj se
Shaam ke dhundhalke mein, khud ye milne aayega

Za'm khud-parasti mein aaj ka naya insaa.n
Zindagi ki mayyat se butkada sajaayega

Fard-fard tanha hai, kul samaaj tanha hai
Main jo chup rahoon Zaidi, kaun gungunaayega?

[From the collection, Nazeem-e-dasht-e-Arzoo]

طشتری میں چائے کو پھونک مارتے ہوئے مجھے فیض مل گئے۔

I've tried my hand at translating a poem from English into Urdu. The poem is 'I find Faiz Blowing on his Saucer of Tea' by Imtiaz Dharkar. You'll find the same text in Nagri letters and Naskh. 

طشتری میں چائے کو پھونک مارتے ہوئے مجھے فیض مل گئے۔

 طشتری میں چائے کو پھونک مارتے ہوئے مجھے فیض مل گئے 

پڑوس کی دکان میں. 

فیض چچا، میں نے کہا، اپنا پرانا محلہ پہچان میں نہیں آتا۔

مکان مالک نے کرایہ بڑھا دیا  

اور جن لوگوں کو ہم جانتے تھے، سب چلے گئے۔

اکال میں اجڑنے کو آپ کا باغ چھوڑ آئے۔

کسی نے آپ کی کتابیں طاق سے اتاریں  

اور دوبارہ چھاپ دیں الفاظ بغیر۔  

ساری کوئلیں اٹھا لی گئیں اور پنجروں میں بند کر دی گئیں۔

وہ گلوکار جو آپ کے نغمے گایا کرتے تھے  

سامعین کے سامنے ہی ان کے گلے دبا دیے گئے۔

فیض نے طشتری اٹھا لی اور چائے پی۔  

جب دل بھر جائے، وہ زمین کا چہرہ

چیر دیتا ہے۔

تم اسے دکھ کہتی ہو،  

میں اسے امید کا ایک پھول۔

انہوں نے کہا، مجھے ایسا لگا مگر  

شاید مجھ سے سننے میں کوئی غلطی ہوئی ہو۔

ہو سکتا ہے ترجمے میں ان کے الفاظ  

الٹے ہو گئے ہوں۔

- Imtiaz Dharkar/Tr. Annie Zaidi

Many thanks to Saif Mahmood for discussion on a couple of tricky lines, and for correcting any mistakes he found in my Urdu spellings.

तश्तरी में चाय को फूंक मारते, मुझे फ़ैज़ मिल गए

पड़ोस की दुकान में

फ़ैज़ चचा, मैंने कहा,अपना पुराना मोहल्ला पहचान में नहीं आता

मकान मालिक ने किराया बढ़ा दिया

और जिन लोगों को हम जानते थे, सब चले गए

अकाल में उजड़ने को आपका बाग़ छोड़ आए

किसी ने आपकी किताबें ताक़ से उतारीं 

और दोबारा छाप दीं अल्फाज़  बग़ैर 

सारी कोइलें उठा ली गईं और पिंजरों में डाल दी गईं

जो गुलुकार आपके नग़मे गाया करते थे 

सामाइन के सामने ही उनके गले दबा दिए गए 

फ़ैज़ ने तश्तरी उठा ली और चाय पी

जब दिल भरा हो, वो ज़मीन का चेहरा 

चीर देता है 

तुम इसे दुःख कहती हो

मैं इसे उम्मीद का एक फूल

उन्होंने कहा, मुझे ऐसा लगा मगर

शायद मुझसे सुनने में गलती हुई हो

हो सकता है तर्जुमे में उनके अल्फाज़ 

उल्टे हो गए हों ।

[From Imtiaz Dharkar's 'Shadow Reader', page 79]

'Mohabbat karti aurat'

I took the liberty of doing an Urdu translation of Manglesh Dabral's Hindi poem 'Prem karti stree'. It didn't take much translation to be honest. The basic grammer and syntax is the same in Hindi/Urdu and Dabral's poetic idiom is rooted in the sort of everyday Hindi that is quite similar to everyday Urdu. This poem in particular had very few words that needed translation. I have only changed a few words, substituting everyday Urdu words that are also common to Hindi.

محبت  کرتی عورت دیکھتی ہے

ایک خواب  روز 

جاگنے پر سوچتی ہے کیا تھا وہ 

نکالنے بیٹھتی ہے معنی  

دکھتی ہیں اسکو عام فہم چیزیں 

کوئی ریتیلی جگہ 

لگاتار بہتا نل 

اسکا گھر بکھرا ہوا 

دیکھتی ہے کچھ ہے جو نظر نہیں آتا  

کئی بار دیکھنے کے بعد 

محبت  کرتی عورت  

یقین نہیں کرتی کسی کا 

کنگھا گرا دیتی ہے 

آئنے میں نہیں دیکھتی خود کو 

سوچتی ہے میں ایسے ہی ہوں ٹھیک 

اس کی سہیلیاں ایک ایک کر

اسے چھوڑ کر چلی جاتی ہیں 

دھوپ اسکے پاس آیے بنا نکل جاتی ہے 

   ہوا اسکے بال پریشان کیے بنا بہتی ہے 

اسکے کھاتے  بنا ہو جاتا ہے کھانا ختم 

محبت کرتی عورت 

ٹھگی جاتی ہے روز 

اسکو پتا نہیں چلتا باہر کیا ہو رہا ہے 

کون ٹھگ رہا ہے کون ہے بدکار  

پتا نہیں چلتا کہاں سے شروع ہوئی کہانی 

دنیا کو سمجھتی ہے وہ  

گود میں بیٹھا ہوا بچہ 

نکل جاتی ہے اکیلی سڑک پر 

دیکھتی ہے کتنا بڑا پھیلا شہر 

سوچتی ہے میں رہ لون گی یہیں کہیں 

- منگلیش ڈبرال  

In Roman font:

Mohabbat karti aurat dekhti hai

ek khwaab roz

Jaagne par sochti hai kya tha vo?

Nikaalne baith'ti hai maa'ni 

Dikhti hain use aam-fahm cheezain 

Koi reyteeli jagah

Lagataar behta nal

Uska ghar bikhra hua 

Dekhti hai kuch hai jo nazar nahin aata

kayi baar dekhne ke baad 

Mohabbat karti aurat

yaqeen nahin karti kisi ka 

Kangha gira deti hai

Aaine mein nahin dekhti khud ko

Sochti hai main aise hi hoon theek

Uski saheliyaan ek-ek kar

usey chhod kar chali jaati hain

Dhoop uske paas aaye bina nikal jaati hai

Hava uske baal bikhraaye bina behti hai

Uske khaaye bina ho jaata hai khana khatm

Mohabbat karti aurat

tthagi jaati hai roz

Usko pata nahin chalta baahar kya ho raha hai

kaun thag raha hai kaun hai badkaar

Pata nahin chalta kahaan se shuru hui kahaani

Duniya ko samajhti hai vo

go'd mein baitha hua bachcha

Nikal jaati hai akeli sadak par

Dekhti hai kitna bada phaila shehr

Sochti hai main reh loongi yahin kahin. 

- Manglesh Dabral 

(Urdu rendition of his Hindi poem 'Prem Karti Stree'. The original can be found here: https://www.hindwi.org/kavita/prem-karti-istri-manglesh-dabral-kavita)

Three new poems in Usawa

Three new poems in Usawa Literary Review's tenth edition (Jan 2024) . One of them, below. 

There was a country we could have been

 

There was a country we could have been

together – utterly shapeless

and well past reform

 

A laughing country with as many sides

as a well-cut diamond – tumbling valleys

of rusty lakes, rivers above,

seas to the right and left

 

The world would look and lust

for this land glistening emerald and sapphire

sitting in the sun rocking

on its heels with night's cool laughter –

How they'd hate us and how they'd long

for our warmth, our knowing, our winking

and getting by

 

If the mist came down real thick

some morning with the blinding rain

with the mountains plush and forest thick

and the bears standing guard

while everyone was busy fighting –

could we be our country yet?

*

 (c) Annie Zaidi

Link to three of my poems in Usawa: https://www.usawa.in/issue-10/poetry-10/there-was-a-country-we-could-have-been-and-other-poems-by-annie-zaidi/

Kaise unhein dikhayein jo parvaane jal gaye - Ali Jawad Zaidi

Here is a transcription of one of my grandfather's ghazals, for those who are interested in poetry but can't read the script. I thought I'd make a valiant effort to translate the poem into English but after staring at the first couplet for fifteen minutes, I gave up. Here's the poem in Roman script anyway:

Ghazal: page 222 (Naseem-e-dasht-e-aarzu)

Kaise unhein dikhayein jo parvaane jal gaye
Shole hazaar phool ke saanche mein dhal gaye

Badla nahin hunooz yahi ik maqaam-e-shauq
Kitne nizaam chashm-e-zadan mein badal gaye

Kya keh diya naseem-e-bahaari ne kaan mein
Sahra navard sair-e-chaman ko nikal gaye

Yaad-e-vafa-e-yaar teri umr ho daraaz
Do chaar saa'aton ke liye dil behel gaye

Saaqi ki chashm-e-mast ka jaadu yahi to hai
Jo log ladkhadaane lage thhe, sambhal gaye

Thhe jin pe tana baar tunak zarf-e-tez rau
Ta aastaan-e-shauq vahi paa-e-shal gaye*

Izhaar-e-jurm-e-ishq khilaaf-e-mizaaj thha
Daar-o-rasan ke zikr pe lekin machal gaye

Ae dil yahi hai barhana paayi ka marhala
Is khaar-zaar mein to kayi sar ke bal gaye

Zaidi ne raat apni kahaani jo chhed di
Jo dil thhe na-shanaas-e-mohabbat dahal gaye.

- Ali jawad Zaidi

Many thanks to Saif Mahmood for clarifying some words that I couldn't decipher in nastaliq (Gah! when will I learn?) and for explaining the meaning of one of the more tricky couplets (sharing the meaning below since it may be a bit difficult even for Urdu speakers). 

*Thhe jin pe tana baar tunak zarf-e-tez rau
Ta aastaan-e-shauq vahi paa-e-shal gaye

Translation:

 
They, who were taunted by fast-moving boors
Still moved towards their passion on wounded feet.

A belated note of gratitude

I had intended to do this around the new year but better late than never. I have been thinking about unpaid labours of love, art and so on. Gender stuff aside, I have benefited from other people putting their work and their knowledge into the world for free. They do this via multiple platforms (many people make apps and other software and tech stuff available for free too) and in diverse media. I sometimes get tired of sitting and reading all the time, so the videos and podcasts and explainers made by strangers, friends and acquaintances have not merely enriched my life, but probably helped my physical and mental health, especially over the last three years. I am making a brief list of the ones that come to mind immediately. 

People who read aloud fiction and poetry: There's Jameel Gulrays and others at Katha Kathan, and also the Adbi Duniya YouTube channel. Some other narrators have read short fiction that I have heard on Audible and I'm grateful that at least some content is free. Rekhta and its videos bring poetry and fun discussions to me even though I haven't been able to attend. I have watched and enjoyed a lot of Hindi Kavita and Urdu Studio videos too, over the years. Am also grateful for people who organize litfests and music concerts and then share the videos later. So many recordings of shows held in the 1980s and early 90s are now popping up and some of them are a joy. Also people who share Hindi film songs from the 1950s and 60s.

People who do explainers of literary theories or texts: The University of Hyderabad has some stuff up on YouTube. Raja Masood also has some clear videos which help people who are either intimidated by or just totally new to literary theory. Even after you read an essay or book, you may struggle with its context and wonder why these ideas are significant. The videos offer conversational aid, sort of base tutorials, or online engagement for people who aren't getting enough of it within their institutions. I am not a fan of online instruction. However, many people find it impossible to continue formal education. Even those of us who return to education after a long gap, as I have, or those who have jobs but would like to improve their understanding of literature, psychology and gender, do benefit from such videos. 

So much thanks to YouTube, for talks from historians and watching musicians and dancers. I really like listening to Amit Varma's podcast Seen and the Unseen. It brings me closer to my community of writers, offers deep conversations with people I cannot meet or talk to in person. Also, a shoutout to Mariyam for her podcast, Main Bhi Muslim, and to heritagetimes.in, and more recently, Ruchika Sharma's Eye makeup and Itihas channel. 

Also, thank you to people who put up cooking recipe videos, sewing and knitting tutorials. And those who do how-to videos that help fix errors on heating systems, and how-to cut and sew dresses videos (I have successfully cut and stitched a shalwar during the pandemic by watching 3 different YouTube videos). And people who make memes (I am a top fan of Mad Mughal Memes). 

A note of gratitude to stand-up comics too. Many of them young people who have obvious grief lurking in the backdrop of their lives, and who put up at least some of their work on YouTube for free. They have been a much-needed source of laughter at the end of the day, and there must be millions  who look for levity in the midst of their gloom, but can't afford to buy tickets too often. 

I've also looked for, and found, audio recordings of several plays, some classic and some modern. Some cold reads that popped up during the pandemic. These have helped and continue to help.

I do buy a lot of books. I watch plays when I can. I do subscribe to Netflix and Prime and I do watch the comedy specials and the longer acts. I am hoping all these guys make their fair share of money. But there are many people who cannot afford the subscriptions or the comedy clubs, the tickets to readings, the samplers of literature that help them broaden their horizons. Those who offer to share the little they can afford to share by offering time,  know-how, insights for free, thank you. 

A translated poem, and a wonderful new poet

Recently, I translated a poem of the contemporary Hindi poet Amitabh Bachchan (not the film actor). It was entirely spontaneous for I saw him share the poem on Facebook and was so moved by it, I immediately wanted to share it with a non-Hindi reading audience. 

I share, below, the poem in the original and the translation. 

Life of a grave

Graves don't just live in graveyards

Some live at intersections

Some right on the street

They receive none of the thick shade from giant tamarind trees

They are circled by medical stores and bicycle shops

No river comes forward to kiss them

No grass grows upon them

Dry leaves do not cover them in autumn

They listen, day and night, to the sound of shutters rising, falling

Their ears ring with the sound of bicycle bells

And people scrambling about in their haste

They live out their lives

Between electric wires

Watching a compact sky

Breathing smoke all day

Only after midnight

Do they catch a bit of sleep.

- Translation mine (Annie Zaidi) and the Hindi original below.

कब्र का जीवन

कब्र सिर्फ कब्रगाहों में नहीं होती

कुछ चौक-चौराहों पर

कुछ बीच रास्तों पर होती हैं

उन्हें इमली के विशाल पेड़ों की घनी छाया नसीब नहीं होती

वे दवा या साइकिल की दुकानों से घिरी होती हैं

किसी दरिया का पानी उन्हें चूमने नहीं आता

कोई घास उन पर नहीं उगती

पतझड़ के दिनों में सूखे पत्ते उन्हें ढ़कने नहीं आते

वे दिन-रात सुनती हैं शटर उठने-गिरने की आवाज

उनके कानों में बजती रहती है साइकिल की घंटी

हड़बड़ी में भागते लोगों के साथ

बीतता है उन कब्रों का जीवन

बिजली के तारों के बीच से

वे देखती हैं छोटा सा आकाश

दिन भर धुआं पीती हैं

आधी रात बाद ही

मयस्सर होती है उन्हें नींद

(December 10, 2014 )

- Amitabh Bachchan

Amitabh's first collection of poems, Samastipur, is now out, available online (amazon etc) as well as through the publisher (you can write to threeessays@gmail.com if you want to order it).

I've also offered an endorsement for the book, which goes as follows: A strong, fully-formed poetic voice has emerged from the belly of great uncertainty. Amitabh Bachchan's aesthetic expression is unclouded and unsentimental even though it remains firmly rooted in the landscape of sentiment. It is an emotional and political response to every shade of injustice around us and Hindi literature is doubtless richer for it.

A review of 'In Your Tongue, I cannot Fit'

This is a difficult book to review in that it does not adhere to any literary format. It includes poetry, but it is not an anthology. It includes art, but it is not an art book. Broadly, the book serves as a document and a testament, a creative intervention on a continuum of silencing. In the photographs of the art installation, where poems were printed and placed on spikes, it is impossible to escape the mental image of heads of rebels placed on pikes though there is no blood in sight. Describing his first reaction to the exhibit, Tripathi says that the “arrogant spikes” appeared as flagpoles and the sheets of paper as white flags. The microphones, he writes, were not meant to be spoken into. Instead, the artist placed speakers in the microphones to amplify the poets’ words.

Gupta’s artwork also includes silhouettes traced from photographs of poets and activists who were arrested or have simply disappeared, and other objects associated with the denial of freedom. In an interview with Tina Marie Monelyon, Gupta says, “Power likes freedom and certainty for itself and not for others,” and goes on to make a connection between those who were killed and those who are viciously trolled online. The intent is the same—to ridicule, to harass, and to distract and confuse all others who might otherwise have been inclined to listen and think. However, as the editors point out in their introduction: “Empires have risen and fallen and national boundaries have changed. But the words of poets have survived.”

Full review here:

https://frontline.thehindu.com/books/crycrycrycry-book-review-for-in-your-tongue-i-cannot-fit-encounters-with-prison-edited-by-shilpa-gupta-salil-tripathi/article66368374.ece

Two new poems

I have two poems out in a special edition of the Portside Review, focused on what is 'Endangered'. Editor Sampurna Chattarji picked two very different poems though they are thematically linked in that they look at danger from different perspectives.

In ‘The sky fails to fall’, I address the destruction implicit in a lack of consequence. What if the skies don’t fall when they should? There are events that should stop us in our tracks, freeze our blood. There are conditions under which we should become dysfunctional and refuse to conduct business as usual. If we don’t, those destructive conditions become stronger, and yet, that happens so rarely. The skies do not fall even as, metaphorically speaking, the sky is actually falling.

The other poem is a sort of list or litany and it derives from my current research on 'witches' in South Asia. While mine is a literary project, I have been reading some anthropology too. In Witch Hunts: Culture, Patriarchy and Structural Transformation (Cambridge University Press, 2020), Govind Kelkar and Dev Nathan argue that a witch-hunt enforces or reinforces patriarchy.‘I found a witch’ is a ‘found’ poem series that draws directly from Kelkar and Nathan’s work. It foregrounds women who were ‘hunted’, weaving together key phrases that jumped out at me into compact micro-narratives, citing only the barest facts. Part of the reason I adopted this style was the need to emphasize the violence and the motivations behind witchcraft accusations, and partly because the psychological terror, the isolation, and the heartbreaking betrayals were already present. I have tried to write so that the women might confront readers more directly.

You can read both poems here: portsidereview.com/4b0d-annie-zaidi

Seven notes on Hope

A few weeks ago, I was invited to contribute to the Hope Project by the University of York. This is a series of conversations with writers and scholars, those looking for a way forward despite all the bad news. In the midst of intense climate change, illness, a pandemic, cultural and physical destruction in various parts of the world, how do we hold onto hope? 

I responded with a long prose-poem, taking off from the famous Emily Dickinson poem where hope is compared to a bird. As a starting note, I wondered what kind of bird this might be. Surely, not a fragile thing for it must withstand hard times. This turned into a reflection that become the first note on hope (shared below). Then I began to draw images and ideas from two major books: Jonathan Lear's Radical Hope: Ethics in the face of cultural devastation (2006) and Rebecca Solnit's Hope in the Dark: Untold histories, Wild Possibilities (2016). I have also sought refuge from despair in the works of several Urdu poets, including the work of my own grandfather, Ali Jawad Zaidi. All of these ideas add up to seven 'notes' or one long prose poem. 

The first part of this text is below and the full version is linked to, and can be read on the York website. I also share a link below to the talk with Claire Chambers where I discuss the work and its images and my attempt to engage with hope. 

i

If it is a thing with feathers calling through chill lands, perhaps it has a curved beak and talons

It cannot be a snowflake. A bird of prey, surely. Sharp-eyed hawk looking far into the distance, swooping when the moment is right, swallowing little mice

A scavenging thing perhaps, living off that which cannot weather the sore storm. On land, it seeks small mammals. On strange seas, fish. A feathered thing that can poach from bears and mountain lions. Strong, STRONG. Fierce in the knowledge that every desert has snakes and lizards, every lake has toads. Every posh enclave has a garden where lunching ladies eat ham and cucumber sandwiches. The magpie ability to grab, to sneak into alien nests to conserve her future. A crow is also a bird after all.

Full text of Seven Notes on Hope: https://www.york.ac.uk/politics/research/current-projects/citizenship-futures/talkingabouthopeproject/sevennotesonhopebyanniezaidi/

Link to video conversation: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=OZI4REaTPCw

Some more thoughts on freedom

Squeeze your lids over your irises, until the inner mirror fogs over, and say the word ‘freedom’. What image do you see?

I see a keen blue and bale upon bale of cottony white sky. Freedom to me is an unbroken expanse, full of light, full of beauty and unlimited potential. Like the sky, it is unfailingly present. Like the sky, it is simultaneously universal and particular, and forever in need of watching. It changes each hour of each day, and my slice of sky can grow black and thunderous even as it remains blue for another citizen in another town. Yet, the sky is comprised of the same materials everywhere.

What of freedom: what is it made of? 

In an article about the dangers of a philanthropy-centric approach to pressing problems rather than a rights-based one, political philosopher Gwilym David Blunt had posed an interesting question: ‘Let’s say a kindly benefactor offered you a better standard of living than that which you currently enjoy, or can realistically aspire to, and credibly promises to treat you very well. The only condition is that they would own you. Would you accept the offer?’

I know I would not. And yet, why? What is it about this word — freedom — that I am willing to pay for it with my life? Why did our ancestors pay the ultimate price? Thousands were executed in 1857 and in the 90 years that followed, tens of thousands lost precious years of youth and health as they were jailed, exiled, stripped of their properties. The word gulaam, slave, was used to describe the status of India before we won Independence in 1947. It is a question still worth asking: what made us feel enslaved?

Some thoughts on what comprises freedom in this new essay in The Hindu: 

Hand on heart, is we truly free?